Fight for the Future
by Electric Smile
Summary: A story based on SFIII. One: Chun-Li discovers a web of cover-ups that may be originating from within Interpol. Cammy has to contend with an odd terrorism investigation gone awry, and her new superior. Guile learns his friend Tom has been beaten severely and meets a young man named Alex who starts to remind him of himself.


The name of Chun-Li's daughter was taken from one of those top 10 Chinese baby name lists as I couldn't find any official sources that gave her a name. I haven't ever played the story mode of any of the SFIII games, so all of my info about it is coming from wikis. This story is an attempt to adapt the games into something bigger than the tournaments. I'm trying not to take it too seriously though.

* * *

I'll admit it. I don't really enjoy the office work that much. That doesn't necessarily mean that I'd trade it back for the field work. Even if things are less dangerous without Shadaloo around, I think it's best if I stay where I am. So maybe I don't travel as much as I used to, but that's fine. I have a reason to stay home now, anyway. Li Min is coming up on her third birthday now. If I worked the way I used to, I'd never have time to plan for it. I probably wouldn't have time for her, period.

The office work gets to me for how much time it requires one to be indoors. I don't enjoy being inside for so long, I'm finding. But my second job, the martial arts classes, keep me outside. At least, when the weather's nice. And, of course, Li Min thinks a day isn't complete unless you've gone to the park. I'm happy for that though. She doesn't let anything slow her down. I find myself hoping all the time she holds onto that.

My job with Interpol is only three days a week, but each time I go in, it feels like the normal forty hours I used to put in. Maybe because most of it's boring work. Sometimes I draw up connections that others have missed, but for the most part, it's pretty mundane compared to all of the stuff with Shadaloo. But then, I don't know that anything will ever be able to compete with that. Even if those days are mostly behind me, I still think about the way things ended sometimes. Many of the higher ups slipped past us. Even though Sagat abandoned his post years before Shadaloo finally dissolved, we've been keeping tabs on him. He dedicates a surprising amount of time to an elephant orphanage near Chiang Mai. Those are the sorts of things I like to hear. A criminal who actually _does_ take a long, deep look at himself and admits to his wrong doings. Who changes, really changes, and tries to give back in some way. Maybe he'll never be much of a people person, but at least he's doing something positive now. Ryu tells me that the two see each other for a match every now and then. They barely exchange words and once the fight is over, they part ways. He says Sagat seems content. And that's just what most criminals are missing in their lives.

Balrog's given us a bit of a slip. We tracked him for awhile, still hanging around the dirtier parts of Bangkok. Hidden in plain sight, I guess he figured. Certainly most of us expected them all to get as far from Thailand as possible, so maybe it was a smart move on his part. While we scrambled for Las Vegas, scouring every seedy casino or strip club or whatever else seemed sordid enough to house a criminal as prolific as him, he was biding his time, plotting out his next move. We just missed him two months after Shadaloo's collapse. But on his own, he's not as much of a threat. He has a surprising degree of business sense, but he couldn't manage something on such a large scale as Shadaloo. He's proven that already. If he's running guns, drugs, or people, we're bound to pick up on him. Criminals remember people like him, and not just as potential dealers. Bison's work earned him a lot of enemies and rivals in the underworld, and if Balrog throws his old connections around too freely, someone much worse than the police are going to find him.

Then there's the one that still keeps me up at night. I don't know what happened to Vega. He's as good at disappearing as Ryu. If only he were as stable. For a long time I didn't really believe he'd trained under actual ninjas. I thought it just sounded like a good story to him, an interesting lie to intimidate opponents. But the way he melts into a new persona has me believing it. I lost track of him once he quit bullfighting. Maybe other officers didn't have that connection worked out, but I did. He must've known staying in the public eye would be more of a risk with Shadaloo heading downhill. So he's out there somewhere, just like the other two. But unlike them, he's a violent psychopath who's probably wracking up more murders every day and it makes me feel sick. Part of me thinks it was wrong of me to retire before he was jailed. When I tell this to Guile, he always tells me that I've spent more of my life on these people than anyone could reasonably ask. That it's time for me to do something for myself for a change. I still don't know if that's selfish or not.

I try to remember that these kinds of cases aren't really my concern anymore. I've got to put more trust in my coworkers. I'm not the only detective on the planet, after all. That should be more evident to me now, given how many of their reports I double-check and cross-check in a day. And that's how I've begun to notice some oddities throughout the department. The first few I could brush off as sloppiness on someone's part. But when more and more issues showed up, coming from a variety of people, it seemed more like a pattern to me. Why would someone make a habit out of modifying information about allegedly solved murder cases? Of course my thoughts jump to some pretty sinister reasons. The motivation for doing something like that seems obvious. Someone is involved in the murders, and doesn't want to end up caught. And what better place to set a perch than high enough in Interpol's ranks to watch your paper trails?

It isn't just information being modified in various reports. Evidence from tightly guarded rooms has disappeared. Fingerprint records which two months ago had a match in our database now don't. Same thing for DNA evidence, if the record of its finding wasn't erased altogether. It isn't that whoever did all of this thought they could be sloppy about it. They just probably didn't expect anyone to start matching what a computer says with the reality, given that each one of these tampered with cases are supposed to be closed.

So of course I've looked into who the supposed murderers or assailants were in these cases. Half the time, identification numbers don't match the name and information given. It just looks nice on paper to have everything filled out. The other half of the time, the people listed accurately aren't in any prison I've checked out, least of all the one they're reported to be interred in. The person in the cell never matches the one in the document, and these individuals were imprisoned for entirely different crimes, often years before or after the ones I'm researching took place.

All of this leaves me with questions. Who is doing this? How many of them are there for no one else to have noticed this or reported it so far? This kind of misinformation should have landed on somebody's radar by now, so why hasn't anyone said anything? I know that someone has to be the first to find out, but some of these problems go back _years._ Then finally, what are these people getting at by doing all of this? Many people are murdered every day, unfortunately many cases unsolved. So why go to the trouble of modifying so much information?

Four years ago, I might have stayed here all night digging around and weighing heavily who was best to take all of this too. Given that it has to be the work of someone on the inside, it's obvious I can't go to just anyone. But it's not four years ago. I have a daughter to look after now, and it was never a healthy habit to get so lost in work to begin with. Problems like this don't get solved in a day.

I pick up the few pages of notes I've written to myself about all of this, and tap them against the desk to straighten them out. In the bottom drawer, towards the back, I slide the papers in an empty folder. They'll be there the next time I come in, but for now I try to forget about it and focus on my life outside of work.

* * *

"Well now isn't this a complete load!" I know you aren't supposed to talk like that at work. Or at least, at work when your superior's around. Or...really, at least, when that superior's the most bloody British stiff-upper-lip professional cold-hearted bastard I've ever worked with. I miss Wolfman.

Colonel Davidson sighs, as if annoyed with me. Again. "You'd do well to remember where, exactly, you are. Watch your language, please."

"Of course," I mutter, only because I want him to know I'm not stupid.

"'Yes, sir', is the requisite response from a subordinate to their superior officer," he tells me, practically murdering me with his eyes. I'll show _him_ a requisite response, a boot in the arse, if his own head wasn't already so firmly lodged up there.

"It's only that my interview with that nutter has gone missing. Can't seem to find it anywhere, hard copy or digital, and I _know_ I printed one out," I ramble as I tear apart my desk to find it. But I know I left it right on top, with a stapler on it to keep it from fluttering away. I don't tend to do a whole lot of desk work, so when I do, it's fairly memorable. And speaking of memorable, I can't remember the last time I was involved in a case as odd as this one. We apprehended a man who was trying to blow up a government building because the UK is being run by the Illuminati. Yes, the same people who might be a secret counsel comprised of lizard-men, influencing world events for hundreds of years. When we asked him how he knew all of this since it's supposed to be a big secret, he claimed that he used to be one of them. The interview was practically gibberish, but a politically motivated attack is considered terrorism and thus falls under MI-6's jurisdiction.

Davidson is staring at me still like I've lost my mind. I'm quite professional when on the field. Wolfman and the others would say I was almost _too_ serious. But with them, our office setting always seemed a bit more casual and I suppose I haven't quite adjusted yet to Davidson's way of running things. Ironic that Wolfman would push me towards being a bit more laid back in the office, and when I finally manage it, he leaves us with this fellow who's more serious than I could ever be. Davidson doesn't respond at all to anything I've said and the look he's giving me is irritating. So finally I ask him, "Is something the matter?"

"I'm waiting." He says it like it's obvious I'm supposed to know what he's waiting on but I haven't got a clue. I'm sure that fact shows through my facial expression, as I'm not all that great with keeping my feelings a secret.

"For?"

"It's amazing to me that you've managed to advance as far as you have while seeming to be completely oblivious to proper decorum in a military setting."

Decorum? "Do you mind telling me what I've done, since I'm so oblivious?" It takes everything I've got to keep from adding, 'you pompous ass'.

"You've still failed to amend your informal response to a superior!"

Oh my days is he still on about _that?_ "I was under the impression we'd moved on from that topic."

In cartoons, sometimes, when people get angry, steam comes out of their ears. That's about what he looks like right now, but it makes _me_ even angrier. How dare he imply I'm somehow wholly incompetent because I forgot to say a couple of words? "Let this be a reminder to you, as again you seem to require so many, that I am not Colonel Wolfman. Perhaps his sloppiness with his subordinates is what set the standards so low as to allow such informal language in the workplace, but I will have none of it. I need you to realise, Lieutenant White, that I require much higher standards from my team. I require respect and _order._ " He emphasises that one by nodding to my desk. I don't think it's that sloppy, but oh no, if you haven't got everything filed away by number and date, and occasionally leave the empty soda can hanging around, and a few empty bags of crisps, then obviously you're some sort of slob! "I've spoken to you time and time again about these things, your mannerisms in the workplace, your unacceptable habits, the casual language on base, all of it. And still I've seen nothing change. You seem to be operating under the assumption that I'll simply give up with trying to correct this behaviour that Wolfman apparently found acceptable, but I will not. You've given me no choice-today will begin a two week probationary period. Suspension without pay."

"You can't do that! Not while I'm in the middle of a case!" Oh the nerve of him! So what if he doesn't like my personality, he can't argue with my work and results! Wolfman never cared when we missed a 'sir' or left a bit of garbage here and there because we were all such exceptional soldiers! This fellow is giving precedence to style before substance, and it's going to bite us in the ass!

"A case so important you've lost the documentation of the suspect's interrogation?" I don't like the word interrogation. To me it implies violent tactics used to intimidate the suspect into admitting things. Everyone should know by now that torturing someone for information isn't just cruel, it leads to unreliable testimonies. After all, who wouldn't say whatever was asked of them to get out of torture?

" _I_ didn't lose it! I left it right here! And besides that, how do you think it disappeared from my computer as well?"

"A poor workman blames his tools, Lieutenant."

"Oh you-"

"Would you like to extend that probation? Or perhaps you're going for a full-fledged termination?"

I have to bite my tongue to keep from fighting him further. Much as I hate him, I'd rather not get fired. Without this job, I don't know what I'd do. I haven't got any skills in any other area but this. I'm alright with a computer, but nowhere near good enough to make a living with one. And I don't think I could take working in a shop or a restaurant the rest of my days. So I take a breath and force myself not to say anything else. I give one last look at my desk for the missing report before I leave, but of course it hasn't just materialised out of nowhere. Somehow I feel as if out of all of this, _that's_ what will bother me for the rest of the day.

"Lieutenant White!" The sort of frantic shout makes me stop and turn back. Jogging towards me from the other end of the hall is one of the men who works in the holding area. Suspects we're still working with for information are held here before being sent off to a proper prison. The worried tone from the guard and the fact that the only individual currently being held there is my suspect makes my stomach drop. "Ma'am! That bomber from last night! He's hanged himself in his cell!"

And here I was worried about some papers. I can't help but get angry. "What? How? Why was anything he could hurt himself with left in there with him?" I demand as I head off towards the cell, as though I need to see it for myself to believe it. It's the guards' jobs to look after the prisoners, so how could this have been allowed to happen?

"We didn't leave anything in there, ma'am, I swear it!" He's younger, probably a bit new to the job, so he's starting to sound a bit afraid. Maybe I won't be the only one getting punished today.

"That obviously isn't the case!" I say as we move into the corridor of cells. There aren't many and the one I'm looking for is swarming with agents. I want to give a frustrated shout at the sight of the corpse suspended just barely above the ground by a tied-up sheet, his neck broken. That doesn't seem possible given how small the cell is. How could he have fallen from high enough to break his neck?

"I swear ma'am, we removed the sheets and covering from the cot," the younger guard insists. "You were specific about it, and I swear we followed your orders!" I don't have the patience to argue with him when the evidence of his mistake is literally in front of our noses.

"Did I not make your dismissal clear enough, Miss White?" As though I need Davidson harassing me on top of this! He must've seen me run in here and followed me.

I gesture at the body in the cell while turning back to face him. "This is more important-"

"We have perfectly capable individuals here to handle your case. Or, now, lack thereof." I don't miss the emphasis he places on the word 'capable,' as though maybe this is all somehow my fault. It's just given him one more thing to add to his list of ways I'm allegedly incompetent. Instead of opening my mouth and getting into a fight, I just grind my teeth a bit more. The rate I'm going today, I'll need some dentures if I want solid food for dinner. "If I need to tell you to leave one more time, it's going to be permanent." What other option do I have at the moment? It feels wrong to abandon this scene, and I'm still outraged that I'm even standing at it to begin with. Why does everything turn to shit all at the same time? It's plain he isn't going to be patient with me, so again, I have to force myself away without a word. Something about it's all wrong, but I clearly won't be able to work it out from here.

* * *

It was about six in the morning on a Saturday when I got a call from Patricia. Tom was in the hospital, found in an alley beaten half to death. I was sighing and cursing under my breath because really, what kind of world is this? Who does something like that to another person? I guess I should know better, given my past. Maybe I'd gotten a little soft since I left all that violence behind. I'd grown unaccustomed to seeing my friends viciously attacked or murdered. But I have to figure that's a good thing.

Julia sat up right away, asking what the problem was. I finished talking to Tom's daughter, offered a few condolences. Words never seem like they're enough, but over the phone it's all you can do. I told her me and Julia would be there if she needed anything because I don't like feeling useless to a friend going through trouble like this. I set my phone on the nightstand and let out another heavy breath. "Tom's in the hospital. Someone attacked him and left him for dead."

Julia sat up a little straighter. "Do they know who did it?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. He's still unconscious. I'm going to head out there though. Patricia sounds pretty broken up about it and I'm sure it's all kind of overwhelming for her."

Julia nodded. "Let me know if she needs anything. Or if she wants to come over for dinner or something."

"Yeah, I'll make the offer but-" I shrugged a little. "Don't know if she'll leave him." It's an understandable reaction. I know if it were me, it'd be difficult to tear myself away.

It's almost seven by the time I'm walking out the door. Amy's still asleep when I check in on her to say good bye. Twelve years old now. I feel a little guilty every time I think about it because where was I for most of it? I try not to dwell too much. I'm here now, that's what matters.

The roads are fairly empty-empty for this city, anyway-given that it's early on a weekend. The drive takes nearly an hour but I'm not complaining. Tom's a good friend. I met him in the military. He was a little older than me and he'd always been a pretty mature, level-headed individual. That's why I'm suspecting this attack wasn't anything he provoked. That's not the type of guy he is. My mind's already going to work on what little information I have. Think that's Chun-Li rubbing off on me, with her analytic way of looking at everything.

He lives in Manhattan, but wasn't found there. So was he out with friends? Or was he in the area against his will? Maybe he was just out running errands. Was he kidnapped and dragged there? I'm imagining if he was with friends, they'd notice he'd gone missing from their group. Left in an alley. The more I think about it the angrier I get. People can be real sick and I can't stand that they're out there, wandering around freely to inflict themselves on innocent people like that.

When I get there, Patricia rushes to me and throws her arms around me. "Will! Can you believe somebody'd do this? How could somebody do this?" she asks over and over. I don't have a good answer, nothing better than I'd thought up before. People can just be plain sick. I offer up the more generic words of comfort instead. She's too young and too distressed to hear such a cynical explanation. I look at Tom and it's hard. One eye's blackened. The other brow has a fine line where it split open, the skin around it turning a dark purple. His lower lip's busted. Jaw is bruised. Nose might be broken. There's probably worse damage than that under those blankets, but thinking about it will just make me angrier.

"Hey Patty all they had was the plain ones but I can check another-" I turn around when I hear the guy's voice and he stops speaking when he notices me. There's something sort of clicking in my brain, like I should know who this is, but his name escapes me for the time being. He's turned his attention from the vending machine snacks in his hands to me and Patricia. He nods at me. "Will, right?"

"Yes. Alex?" His name came back to me about the same time he said mine. I've only met him a handful of times. And he was a _lot_ smaller then. Now he's a pretty tall, solid guy. Could make a killing as a football player.

"Yeah." He hands Patricia one of the bags of snacks. I frown a little.

"Hey, if you guys want some real food, I can go out-" I start to offer.

"No, it's okay," Patricia says. "How often d'ya get to eat cookies for breakfast, right?" Her voice quivers a little bit like she might start crying again as she tries to find a positive way to spin this. She catches herself and smiles.

"Well, look, you guys know my door's always open right? I know it's a bit of a drive but anytime, night or day. I'll even come and get you if you want."

"Thanks but I don't think I could stand to leave him," Patricia says. "Not while he's all-he's all-" Then she loses it and buries her face in her hands as she starts sobbing. Alex slings an arm around her and offers up the same kind of comforting words I did before. How he's sorry this is happening, that Tom's in good hands now, how he's going to be okay. "Yeah yeah, I know," she says. "That don't make it any easier to look at him like that! What'd he do to deserve something like that? I bet nothing!"

Alex clenches his jaw and nods.

"Listen, I'll be right back," she says, scrubbing at her eyes. "Just gotta clean myself up a little." I start to tell her that she doesn't have to worry about that before I decide maybe she just wants a second alone. I leave her to it, and glance back at Tom.

"I'm gonna find whoever did this," Alex says finally, still watching Tom for any twitch, any kind of movement. "And I'm gonna beat them the way they beat him. Leave 'em for dead." His fists ball up so tight his knuckles pale.

"Does anyone have any information about who might've done it?" I ask him, trying to steer the conversation in a productive direction. I know too damn well how much it hurts to see a friend like this, or worse.

"No, nobody's got anything to say yet. But that's alright. That ain't gonna stop me. When Tom wakes up, I'll get him to tell me everything. These guys just better hope the cops find 'em before I do."

I watch him for a minute before I talk. His nostrils are flaring, the toe of one of his boots is tapping the ground incessantly, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest. I see myself, years and years ago, when hearing the news about Charlie. Hearing that the military couldn't afford the manpower to go looking for him. And I remember vowing what Alex just did. That I'd do it all myself. "You've got to be careful, thinking like that," I tell him.

"Yeah, it's easy for you to say when it ain't your family laying there like that." He nods at Tom. Technically, he and Alex aren't blood related, but I know as well as anybody that doesn't make them any less of a family.

"I've been in your shoes before, kid. I know this better than you think," I say. "I know exactly what it's like, starting some hunt for vengeance over the life of someone close to you. I can tell you exactly how many years I poured into it, how much of my life was dedicated to it. How strained my other relationships became as I ignored them to focus better on the only thing that seemed to matter." Alex's eyes soften a little, and I see his fingers relax. At least that means he's listening. "I know how it feels right now. You're angry, you feel helpless. So you're eager to get out there and tear someone to shreds for what happened. But you have somebody who needs you right now, and you can't forget about her."

He looks down at the floor for a second and shrugs. "So what am I supposed to do instead? Just let those guys get away with it?"

"Let the cops do their job. I'm sure when Tom wakes up, he'll have plenty to tell them. You need to channel all of this energy into something more productive than revenge."

"Yeah, like what?" he asks me, plainly irritated. I'm sure he feels like I'm talking down to him. And at a time like this, it's the last thing anybody wants to hear.

"I can't be the one to tell you that." I put a hand on his shoulder to show him I'm saying all this as a friend. "Just don't let this rule your life like I let it rule mine. I don't want you to make the same mistakes I made." He nods slowly, maybe just as a way of telling me he heard me. I've got no way of knowing if that means he's actually listened.


End file.
